We had the church Christmas party last night. I was the water pour er...and was told to wear red. I grabbed the shiny, sparkly red bike helmet (seriously, I did). Kira and Mimi were here to do some Christmas baking, so came along. This year, for a nice change, they decided to have the kids come. In my mind it is the smiling kids that make Christmas so special and I never got the whole thing of not allowing kids; we are out of there by 8:30 at night and it's not like there is any alcohol. Anyway, the young men and young women had crafts set up for the kids as they awaited their turn to see Santa. To see the teens working with the little guys is a real joy. They are so darn cute. The highlight of the night was a little guy who is pretty close to three. He did a little sticker manger and some of the girls were doing a nativity charm bracelet. Charms and beads were strung on a piece of fishline. Little Cole suddenly announced to me that he wanted to fish. I hadn't a clue what he wanted and was checking all the projects looking for fish stickers. What he was pointing at was one of the teens showing a little girl how to string the beads and charms. There were just a couple of beads and a charm dangling on a piece of fishing line. It made perfect sense to him, and Grandpa's pond is stocked with trout...he was ready to go to Grandpa's and go fish. We told him that it was too dark and that the fish were sleeping, and his Dad promised they would go next week. I'm not sure what "next week" means to an almost three year old, but it seemed to appease little Cole. On the way to the truck a friend mentioned that she just got a new bike and needed to get a helmet. I just happened to have a shiny, sparkly red one with me, and she got an early Christmas present.
We spent eight hours baking today. We have at least that many more before we are done. Thank goodness I have little desire for sweets any more. Most of these will end up at someone else's house. My favorites? Spritz and shortbread. It is funny, but opening all those cubes of butter made my stomach lurch a bit. I so rarely eat butter. I don't even put it on my toast. I missed it for a while, way back when I stopped eating it, but no longer. I'm quite happy without it. End of story.
Haiku. I try to get it, but can't. I went to ask.com to see if a definition would help. I still don't get it. Kira finally got me to see the light. "Think beatnik, coffee house and bongo drums," says she. I still don't get the excitement over it, but I am a bit closer to "getting" it. Here is one from the corgi forum:
Winter in Texas
Where is our fluffy white stuff?
Corgis frap in leaves
and another:
Spirits bright on Christmas
Bells on bob tails ring with joy
Presents with Corgis
According to Jeeves on ask.com a Haiku is a poem that cannot rhyme and has 3 lines:
5 syllables, 7 syllables and 5 syllables
Now my problem is that when I think of one or read one, I hear bongo drums and a stoned beatnik. Gee, thanks Kira.
I think I am getting old and set in my ways. Maybe 50 really is the new 30 and I am just slightly over that darn hill. I know I am a grandmother, and am quite delighted with it, but not at all like the grandmother I remember. I wonder what my grandkids will remember about me. I remember my grandma knitting, and I remember her tying my hair in rags. That was what gave those Shirley Temple type curls...(I'm thinking that my kids likely don't even know who Shirley Temple is, sigh). I hated the whole thing, because I wanted to be outside playing, but it was nice to spend time with Grandma. She died when I was in first grade, so it is interesting the things I remember about her, since I was only six when she died. I am hoping my grandkids remember things like my motorcycle, my horse and dogs, and maybe the pool. It is all activity related stuff. Interesting. I hope my kids remember to ask them when they are adults and that they write it down somewhere. The weird progression of the McDougall family. Morgan's orange shirt that was a birthday present on his third birthday "Born to be Weird." Who wants to be "normal?" What the heck IS normal? Perhaps my grandmother who knitted slippers and did my hair up in rags was normal; it seems like a grandma kind of thing, eh? Give me weird any day...I wonder if I have permanently damaged my children? Yet they let me be around their kids. Either they are so badly damaged that they don't know, or all is good, and weird is actually quite admirable. I'll go with the latter. A bit like wearing a bike helmet to a Christmas party.
G2
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